


Prisoner

by missigma



Category: Injustice: Gods Among Us
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, I swear there's nice stuff in the fic too, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 07:55:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14613342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missigma/pseuds/missigma
Summary: Shortly after his capture in Injustice: Gods Among Us, Bruce finds himself the prisoner of a very different Superman than the man he knows. Injured and unmasked, he relies on his knowledge of Clark as he was in his own universe to navigate the minefield of a darker world which has left his close friend a tyrannical reflection of his former self. However much he tries, however much has changed, Bruce finds it difficult to distinguish this man from Clark.





	Prisoner

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by Yamada’s (main blog: [yamad-a](http://yamad-a.tumblr.com/) | art blog: [lord-yamada](http://lord-yamada.tumblr.com/)) amazing artwork. I have been admiring your art since I joined the fandom and I am so, so honored that I had the chance to write this.
> 
> [Here is the art!](http://lord-yamada.tumblr.com/post/173799338681/title-prisoner-author-missigma-artist-yamada) 
> 
> Thank you to dipkipp ([tumblr](http://dippkip.tumblr.com) | [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dippkip/pseuds/dippkip)) for beta-ing this fic. I’m very grateful for you input and suggestions!
> 
> I’m really happy to be finally posting this so I hope all of you enjoy.

The steel holding cell scarcely left enough room for Bruce to sit, much less lie down. However, Bruce could no longer stand. Fiery pain twined up the back of his thigh, seemingly only worsened by the time he had spent forced to stand as Superman inspected him.

Slowly as he could manage, Bruce slid down the back of the wall, awkwardly stretching his injured leg out in front of him. He groaned as he finally rested against the ground, leg extended as far as the cramped space allowed.

Setting aside the injury, Bruce instead set about cataloging his remaining tools. Lantern’s search had not been thorough, though he had stripped him of his belt and half a dozen concealed batarangs. However, as long as he wore his suit, he had many more options.

Now, he tested the manacles that held his hands behind his back. The chain that connected his shackles looped behind the thick steel rib that ran up the wall of the cell. It would take too long for him to cut through with the small laser mounted in his right gauntlet, so he instead turned his attention to the thick bands of steel that bound his wrists.

His focus broke as the cell gave a sudden lurch. Its doors swung open into the darkness of the sparsely lit prison.

A familiar face greeted him, though his features lacked his usual good humor. The harsh fluorescent light that illuminated Bruce’s cell whited out any nuance to his expression, leaving his face flat, jaw tight, eyes glittering blue.

Bruce struggled to remind himself that the figure before him was not the man he knew so well. The broad symbol on his chest shone just as red in this light, but the face was slightly older. This was not Clark, but some other Superman, whose world Bruce did not yet understand.

“Comfortable?” Superman asked, lips raised in a smile that was far from reassuring. Beyond his billowing cape, Bruce caught sight of the prison behind him. Outside the confines of the container, there was only open air, the concrete floor forty feet distant below.

“What do you want?” Bruce growled, trying to claw back some control.

Ducking his head slightly, Superman entered the cell. He landed gently on the floor, though his weight was enough cause the container to shift, tipping Bruce closer to the open door. “I have more questions for you.” He reached out, placing one hand flat against the wall as the cell swayed under his added weight.

“I told you, I don’t know anything about the others.”

“And you wouldn’t tell me if you did,” Superman dropped to one knee, the cramped confines of the cell already forcing him uncomfortably close. “No, I want you to tell me about your world.”

“What good would that do?”

“Mostly, I’m just curious.” Superman’s jaw softened. “It’s hard to know if I can trust you.”

It was a lie so blatant that only Clark would try it. Eyes narrowed, Bruce returned, “You first.”

Superman folded his hands on his knee. “What do you want to know?”

“Why don’t you trust me?” It was a small enough question that Bruce hoped he might get a real answer. If answered, it could help him judge how far this reality had drifted from his own.

“I’d like to trust you,” Superman admitted. “It’s just _him_ I don’t trust.”

“Who?”

“The other Batman, the other Bruce,” Superman explained impatiently.

“Why don't you trust him?”

Superman ignored the question in favor of his own. “Who are the members of the Justice League in your world?”

Bruce hesitated. It was impossible to guess who else might have followed him here, and he didn't want to put them in any danger. “Diana. Hal.” Bruce had already seen their counterparts. “Ollie,” he added reluctantly. Those three had been closest to the portal. “You and me.”

Superman extended his hand, fingers gently curling as he reached for Bruce’s jaw. Bruce lifted his chin, avoiding his touch, but Superman only smirked. He seized him, his grip iron.

“No one else?” he pressed, stern.

“No.” Bruce replied firmly, bracing his hands against the cell behind him. Electricity sparked from his gloves, jolting through Superman’s body. He fell backwards, striking his head against the opposite wall of the cell so hard he dented it.

Shackles falling from his hands, Bruce wasted no time trying to find his feet. He leapt from the cell, cape snapping open behind him. He rolled into his landing, grunting as his injured thigh made contact with the floor. Nevertheless, he forced himself to his feet.

He would need to create a distraction to have any hope of escaping. That could only mean adding escapees more dangerous than he to his jailbreak. Though Superman would soon recover, he would prioritize the capture of those that would kill if they made it to the mainland.

Bruce sprinted across the wide-open floor of the prison, seeking the cover of the shadows. Gratefully, he melted into the dark near the corridor that led to the cafeteria, leaning slightly against the wall.

The layout of Stryker's Island was familiar to him. More than once, he had helped corral Luthor here and it seemed that the geography of universe had not changed much. Oddly, no guards patrolled the upper levels, or even the prison floor. The control room, when he slipped inside, contained a single guard, easily disabled.

Standing over the keyboard, Bruce quickly opened the cells of the fourth floor, then the third, second, first, and the isolation wing. There was a great grinding of metal as the doors slid open, but, even as Bruce waited, no other sounds came.

Stryker’s Island housed inmates as dangerous as any in Arkham, always eager to make their escape. Staring out the bulletproof glass of the control room, Bruce peered up at the darkened cells and could only conclude that they were empty. All of them.

The slight rush of air through the tiny room warned him of Superman’s presence before he turned to face him. Superman filled the frame of the door, broad shoulders blocking Bruce’s only exit. His jaw was set and brow furrowed, a dark look Bruce had scarcely seen directed at him.

“Clark,” Bruce raised a hand, as if to placate him.

“Kal,” he corrected him.

Correction ignored, Bruce continued, “Why is Stryker’s Island empty?”

“It’s not secure.” Kal stepped over the body of the unconscious guard. “Clearly.” He took hold of Bruce by his arm, jerking him close.

In a blur of movement, they were outside the prison, hovering high above the rocky island. Grabbing a handful of Bruce’s cape, Kal tore the material from his shoulders, letting it flutter towards the black water below. In spite of himself, Bruce seized at Kal’s shoulder for balance. Kal's eyes remained cold as Bruce twisted his hand in his cape

Like this, Kal could easily kill him. Shake free from his hands, let him fall, where he would be dashed against the rocks or the unforgiving sea. “Kal,” Bruce tried again. “Whatever has happened here, you have to understand, I’m not my counterpart.”

Kal’s expression did not grow any brighter under the light of the stars and the Metropolis skyline beyond. He inhaled deeply, eyes fixed to Bruce’s own.

“I know,” he eventually responded. “That’s what I’m hoping for.”

 

* * *

 

With Bruce still clinging to him, Kal swiftly dropped back to Earth. Just beyond the prison walls, Kal brusquely handed him off to a pair of guards.

He was again shackled, this time with long chains leading to a loop around his waist. Then they pushed him aboard a windowless silver shuttle and strapped him into a seat. The guards sat across from him, weapons drawn.

For the moment, Bruce offered no resistance. As long as Kal was nearby, it would be futile. And, at the moment, it was clear that Kal was aware of his every move.

Oddly, neither guard seemed particularly surprised to see Bruce’s face. Bruce could only conclude that the identity of this universe’s Batman had long since been exposed. He allowed himself a moment to consider this complication. It afforded him a new kind of freedom, now that he did not have to affect Bruce Wayne’s personality. It also brought new annoyances, now that he could not use that brainless smile to conceal his attempts to escape.

The guards both watched him with the utmost attention. It was difficult to gauge their emotions, with nothing visible around their black masks and goggles. Bruce eventually decided it was more productive to ignore them, focusing instead on calculating their destination.

They headed due north from Metropolis, stopping nowhere along the way. From their speed, Bruce estimated they would leave the country in less than an hour, and after that, there would be little else before them. At least there would be no prison that would be fit to hold him.

That could only mean the Fortress was their destination. That was welcome, in a way. It was familiar territory. In other ways, it would be a greater challenge as it housed all the remnants of Krypton, great power and knowledge bound to Kal's will.

 

* * *

  

* * *

 

Bruce first met Clark in costume after straying into Metropolis one warm spring night. They fought hand to hand, Bruce slowly coming to terms with how badly outmatched he was.

Pinning Bruce against the tar paper roof, Clark stripped him of his cowl. It took only days for Bruce to repay the favor, finding Clark hunched over his desk at the Planet.

Their initial rivalry soon grew into an awkward partnership, driven by necessity.

Clark was immensely trusting, but he did not invite Bruce further into his life. Despite the thaw in their relationship, despite working together for dozens of missions, despite Bruce's begrudging acceptance that Clark somehow considered him a friend, Clark never let him see the Fortress.

The omission gnawed at him. Bruce could never tolerate anyone else keeping secrets beyond his own. It seemed obvious that he was hiding something, and Bruce could easily fathom a dozen ways that this preluded a dangerous betrayal.

The solution was simple. Bruce would mount an expedition to determine the nature of this retreat. If he was satisfied it was harmless, then Clark need be none the wiser. If instead, he found a bastion from which Clark could conquer the world, he would bring the matter to the League.

Bruce spent weeks plotting his expedition, then waiting for the best opportunity. He would not dare attempt to mount this incursion until Clark was off-plane.

His opportunity came in the heat of the summer. Clark left him a message on his phone. He always called, politely informing him that he'd be "out of town for a while". Though Bruce had told him it was not necessary, he made no further attempts to dissuade him from these calls. It was easier to monitor a threat if it reported to him.

After an hours-long flight, Bruce brought the Batwing low over the Arctic. Surveying the icy expanse below him, he pinpointed a spot in the shadow of the great structure, somewhere where the Batwing might be overlooked in the event that someone passed by.

As if able to hear his very thoughts, a flurry of color erupted from the tallest spires. Red, blue, and gold, cape billowing out behind him. Bruce swore, but did not try to turn back.

Cautiously, Clark approached, confusion evident long before Bruce could see his face clearly. He paused, hovering just feet from the plane's blacked-out windscreen.

"Bruce?" Clark's voice crackled over his comms.

"S," Bruce acknowledged him, not willing to show any shame for being caught.

"What--" Clark shook his head, then tried again. "Why are you here?"

"I came to see the Fortress."

Clark frowned, clearly aware that Bruce had meant to scout the area unsupervised. He worked his tongue over his teeth, thinking. "Well, you've come all this way. I suppose it'd be rude not to invite you in."

Without further discussion, Bruce set the Batwing down beside the Fortress. He swung his legs out of the cockpit and jumped to the ice below.

Still somewhat distrustful, Clark led him into the great entryway. As minutes passed he warmed, describing the grand wonders that the structure housed. And though Bruce would have preferred to make this tour unescorted, there was still use to it. At regular intervals, he spotted odd little hollows in the ice, each connected by a glittering string of energy.

Though it might be alien in origin, Bruce recognized the similarities between the Fortress and his own home. There was the surveillance system he first noted and areas for gathering, learning, and sleeping. Scattered through it all were items collected in Clark’s travels, both on and off-world, coupled with Kryptonian relics.

Clark made an eager guide. To Bruce’s knowledge, few if any humans had stepped inside, so he was quite possibly the first person Clark had ever been able to show these things. Though the Fortress had not quite existed for a year, in that time Clark had learned much about Krypton, his curiosity more than equal to Bruce’s interest in the subject.

In spite of his deep cynicism, Bruce understood why Clark had kept this from him. The Fortress protected something deeply meaningful. The items were precious to him not because of their potential power but because they were the last artifacts of his homeworld.

"I'm sorry," Clark said abruptly as they paced down a smaller corridor two levels below the grand hall.

"For what?" The apology caught Bruce off guard.

"I know you've trusted me with so much. I'm sorry I didn't trust you with this."

Bruce struggled to bite back a typically sardonic reply. He really had no choice in the matter of whether Clark would discover who he was and the cave where he kept all his secrets. It had taken little effort for him to rip those secrets from him, and yet...

Failing to find words, Bruce gripped at Clark's arm, nodding slightly. He let himself be guided through the broad corridors, kept company by Clark and his bright enthusiasm.

 

* * *

 

The Fortress brought no surprises. The halls were just the same as Bruce remembered, broad arches of crystal carved into a hollow of ancient ice.

The room the guards shuttled him into bore the basic necessities, a bed, a chair and a bathroom, but was otherwise spartan. When he was freed Bruce slowly sank into the chair, scanning the rest of the space. The walls were a flat, smooth white, not ice, nor any other material Bruce was familiar with. Marble, he would guess, if they did not emanate warm light that grew brighter with the coming morning. He could not imagine the Clark he knew ever using this room, for either a guest or a prisoner. It lacked all comfort and charm, or any trace of things Clark would find homey.

Naturally, the door to the room was locked. No keypad or other mechanism marked the inside, not even a door handle. After it had closed, the only evidence it was even there was the razor-thin seam that ringed the portal.

The rest of the of the space was no more promising for his escape. Though there was circulation in the room, and it was pleasantly warm considering the arctic environs that surrounded him, there was no obvious ventilation system. The walls and plumbing afforded no more opportunities than the rest of the place, so, Bruce closed his eyes to think.

His objectives were clear: survive, escape, if possible, and gather information that might be useful to the others, if he could reach them.

Escape, he assumed, would be the most difficult. It was not the Kryptonian technology, but the sheer remoteness of the Fortress that was most likely to frustrate his attempts to leave.

Simple survival would be easier. Kal was clearly somewhat unstable and quick to anger. However, Bruce could not pretend that the Clark he knew did not also share those traits. Though he called himself by his other name, Kal did not—as of yet—seem willing to kill him.

Bruce could not help but wonder where the differences between Kal and Clark lay. But he could not yet discourage the thought that he should be there for this man, to try to rein him in. After all, Clark had done as much for him before.

 

* * *

  

* * *

 

In the smoky haze that the bomber had left in his wake, Clark reached out to Bruce. He put his hand on his shoulder, not restraining him but chiding him as Bruce dug his heel into the perpetrator’s newly broken arm, prompting an anguished scream.

"That's enough," Clark told him firmly.

Bruce exhaled, soot and dust rising around him, marking the black of his cape a dull grey. He shook off his hand, but his touch broke the spell enough to send Bruce stumbling back to recover his composure. Clark knelt at the man's side, pinning him down by his chest as he set his arm.

Dazed, Bruce simply stood there, breathing in the smoke and stench of the cluttered tunnel, before a survivor’s cry roused him to action. He sprinted away, almost glad for the distraction, and threw himself into the action for the next few hours.

“Why did you do that?” Bruce asked when they were alone, standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the Watchtower’s observation deck. The chaos that marked Gotham today was invisible from above, the city still twinkling bright as ever as the curve of twilight swept over it.

“Do what?” Clark replied vaguely, as if still lost in thought.

“Stop me.”

Raising his head, Clark glanced at him. “That man was terrified.”

“That was the idea,” Bruce let his annoyance surface as sarcasm.

“He was lying to you.” Clark grasped the railing that edged the vast portal and leaned on it. “He doesn’t have any connections, no knowledge at all of any larger operation. He was just making up names to try to get you to stop torturing him.

Bruce flinched at the word. A sick weight settled on his chest, laden by both his own guilt and by Clark's disapproval.

“I’ve never seen you that angry.” Clark looked up at him, his eyes reproachful.

Removing his cowl, Bruce pushed his hair out of his eyes. “Clark, it’s not your responsibility—” he tried, then rubbed at his eyes and began again. “I’m sorry.”

Clark remained silent, though Bruce could not tell if he was waiting for him to continue or simply lacked anything else to say.

“I’m—" Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, “glad that you stopped me.”

Nodding, Clark seemed to relax slightly. “I know how difficult it is, but sometimes hurting more people will only make things worse. It gives them an enemy, a cause to fight against.”

However he felt, Bruce still couldn't bring himself to tell Clark he was right. Instead he turned sideways, as he felt Clark’s eyes again settle on him. “I used to ride that train into Gotham when I was a child.” He knew how he sounded, wistful, sentimental, both things that he never wanted the other members of the League to believe he could be. “It was the only freedom I had at the time, the only way to see things outside of the life my parents provided for me.”

Again, Clark rested his hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

This time, Bruce did not push him away.

 

* * *

 

Bruce stood when the door to his makeshift cell slid open, readying himself for whatever awaited him. He managed push himself upright with minimal awkwardness and locked his knees, unwilling to show the extent of his injury.

Hair perfectly windswept, Kal paused just inside the doorway. Briefly, the electric blue of his eyes shifted to an even more unearthly hue, scanning him from head to toe. Bruce waited motionless, refusing to try to shield himself from his penetrating gaze.

Shaking his head in frustration, Kal crossed the room. “I knew I couldn’t trust Lantern to search you properly.” He seized Bruce’s wrist and forced him to turn his palm upwards. There, encased in leather, lay his set of lock picks which Kal quickly confiscated. He knelt next, reaching for the batarang still strapped to Bruce’s ankle.

Dourly, Bruce allowed Kal to manhandle him, removing every gadget that remained in his possession. Kal forced one large hand under the back of Bruce’s suit to relieve him of the battery he had discharged during his attempted escape. His warm fingers rested briefly against his skin, before ripping it from its plasticized housing. His hands slid around to Bruce's hip, where he tore Bruce’s suit open to remove single-use grapple launcher stored in a concealed pocket.

From his knees, Kal slowly worked his hands up Bruce’s leg, feeling for any gadgetry that his vision might have missed. Bruce remained stoically still until he reached the back of his thigh. There, he cried out, nearly falling forward until he braced himself with his hands on Kal’s shoulders.

Kal looked up at him curiously, gauging his reaction. Then, with eyes glowing blue, he turned his gaze back to Bruce’s thigh. “Your hamstring—”

“Pulled it. I know.” Bruce quickly withdrew his hands from Kal. He tried to stand straighter, leaning back on his uninjured leg.

“You should sit down.” Looping one arm around Bruce’s shoulders, Kal gently led him back to the chair. Grimacing, Bruce lowered himself into the seat, still supported by Kal.

With Bruce seated, Kal again knelt. He did not touch Bruce’s injured thigh again as he resumed his search, feeling his way up Bruce’s other leg. In spite of himself, Bruce could not help but feel uncomfortable as Kal reached his thigh. “That’s enough.” He wrapped his hand around Kal’s wrist, though he had no hope of stopping him.

Eyebrows raised, Kal only slid his hands higher. Internally, Bruce cursed himself. This shouldn’t affect him at all and probably wouldn’t if Kal didn’t look just like Clark. Swallowing, Bruce searched for any thread of conversation that might distract him.

“When exactly did you decide to become a dictator?”

Kal paused, hands still circling as much of Bruce’s thigh as he could hold. He frowned. “Is it really that difficult to believe that in another universe you could be the villain?”

“No,” Bruce replied truthfully. He had often thought of what might happen if he were to reach some final breaking point. Grief had often brought him close, both senseless deaths, and the loss of those closest to him. But even then, he had brought more harm upon himself than on anyone else.

He held some small comfort that the League would try to rein him in. However, within the Cave, he had countermeasures to defeat each of them. If Bruce had ever wanted to rule the world, there would be no one able to stop him.

The possibility tempted him too. He could expand his reach, enforce his worldview on everyone else. Surely the world would be a better place if it followed his guiding hand. Nothing would be beyond his control, not anymore.

He was ever grateful to those around him, family and friends, who encouraged him to see shades of grey in the Gotham night. He counted Clark in that number, despite their myriad of disagreements.

“Surely, you could think something that could cause such a reaction. The death of someone in your family.”

“Who?” Bruce demanded, his throat growing tight.

“Dick.”

Bruce felt his stomach drop. “Dick?” He looked down at Kal, hoping this was a trick, a lie. Even if this was not his world, it tore at him to think that here Dick could be dead. “When? What happened?” he demanded.

“Five years ago.” Kal continued his search, hands working up to Bruce’s hips again, then his sides. “Damien told me it was an accident.”

“An accident? What—” Bruce exhaled, gathering himself. An emotional reaction was exactly what Kal was pushing for. “No, Kal. It’s entirely possible that I could be the villain here. But I’m sure you’d understand that it’s difficult to see you as benevolent when you surround yourself with villains and fascist imagery.”

“Villains?” Kal indignantly withdrew his hands from him.

“The Lanterns.”

“You know Hal. And Sinestro—”

“Are you going to defend Sinestro?” Bruce quirked a brow at him.

Rising slowly, Kal drew himself up to his full height. “I think you understand fear. Maybe better than they do. How useful it is as a weapon.”

Temper rising, Bruce forced himself back to his feet. “I understand fear because I’ve lived it.” He took a step forwards, bringing them chest to chest. “If you truly feel as I do, then you’ll understand what I’m saying.”

“I know fear, Bruce.” Kal’s voice dropped low, his eyes steely. He turned and made for the door, gadgets he had collected from Bruce clutched in his fist.

That left Bruce to ponder what could have led to this darker Superman who seemed perpetually close to inhuman fury. He quickly concluded that it could only be death who had visited here. Death who had taken something, someone vital from Kal. For the man Bruce knew, there were only a handful of people whose loss he would find so devastating.

Desperately, Bruce tried to weave the threads together, but it still did not make sense. The man he knew would have never turned so abruptly. Men didn’t simply flip a switch, from good to bad, in a single second. It was a thing that grew inside of them, gripping at their hearts until it finally consumed them. But that darkness was not temporary, it was always there, simply waiting to surface.

Bruce had seen that sort of darkness in Clark before as anger. Righteous fury.

 

* * *

  

* * *

 

Bruce and Clark found themselves together, as they often did, held in the depths of some unknown fortress. Captives, for the moment, until they could twist circumstance enough to fight their way free.

Clark's head hung forwards, lolling slightly as he was dragged across the room. Bruce could not guess whether he was concussed or poisoned, he could only see that he was unconscious. The guards arranged his limp body in a chair across from Bruce, chaining the manacles at his wrists and feet to the solid metal of the chair. Clark's cape had been removed, leaving ragged edges where the thick material was cut from his shoulders. Fresh bruises mottled his jaw, stretching up onto his lower lip, while others marked his cheek.

Bruce's own situation was not much better. He stood in the middle of the room, arms chained loosely above his head. Though he was not forced to put his weight on his shoulders, his fingers were numb from poor circulation.

Clark stirred slightly, eyes cracking open. He winced but did his best to push himself to sit upright.

“Superman,” Bruce acknowledged him, eyes already sliding over Clark’s bindings, looking for a weakness.

“Batman.” Clark answered flatly, refusing to let his voice waver.

“Let’s not waste time with the code names.” A man shouldered his way past the guards. He stooped briefly, drew a knife strapped to his calf, and approached Bruce.

Instinctively, Clark tensed, but Bruce ignored the man. Instead, he kept his eyes locked on Clark, willing him to keep calm.

The man inserted the tip of the knife into a seam in Bruce’s cowl just behind his ear. Clark cringed as Bruce’s helm was levered open, the ugly blade only one slip away from cleaving into his cheek. Bruce remained patiently still, head slightly bowed as he worked. The mechanism cracked and it slid off, clattering noisily on the floor.

All artifice discarded, Bruce’s eyes flickered up, scanning over Clark.

“There you are,” the man smirked, cupping Bruce’s dirt-smeared cheek. He switched easily into Arabic. “<It has been fifteen years, has it not?>”

“<Perhaps it has. I do not remember.>” Bruce turned his head dismissively. For a second, the man stared at him, before barking out a laugh. He shoved Bruce back a half step and turned to the guards.

“Cut the suit off.”

A handle mounted on the wall was cranked around once, then twice, forcing Bruce to rise up onto the balls of his feet as the chains that held him were drawn taut. He hung there, swaying slightly, his whole body exposed.

One guard stepped forwards, another knife raised. Grabbing a handful of the material at Bruce’s side, he stretched it, then forced the knife through. Clumsily, he sawed through the suit, cutting a slit up Bruce’s side, then down his leg. Soon, he peeled it away, occasionally pausing to discard chunks of armor that hindered his progress. When he finished, Bruce was left barefoot, wearing only the bottom-half of his undersuit, tight black material that only barely managed to preserve his decency.

“Burn it.” The shredded remnants of the suit were gathered in a pile. Boots and gloves were thrown atop his chest plate before the heap was carried from the room.

“<You remember my name, I know you do.>” The man approached Bruce again, running a hand up his arm. His touch remained light, fingertips gently brushing over his skin. “<I made sure you’d remember me.>” Blood seeped down Bruce’s bicep where the blade had nicked his skin, but he did not flinch at his touch. Briefly, Clark frowned at Bruce, but Bruce turned towards the man, letting his lashes fall low on his cheeks.

“<I don’t think there was anything to remember.>” Of course Bruce remembered. Years ago, he had traveled through Kahndaq in search of a reclusive engineer. That man had been guarded by a militia, all heavily armed and led by a zealous young man, the same man who stood before him now. But Bruce was eager to keep the attention on himself rather than Clark and willing to antagonize him to do so.

Again, the smirk flashed wide over the man’s face, delighted by a captive that bit back. He raised his hand and swiftly struck Bruce across the face. Bruce’s head snapped back at the force of the blow and he swayed. Swiftly, red heat flushed over his cheekbone where he had been struck. Clark grimaced, muscles tensing.

"Uncooperative as always. But it doesn't matter." The man turned his back, taking a few steps towards Clark, though he stayed carefully out of his reach. "You're the one I want to speak to."

"What for?" Clark gritted out.

"I have some questions for you." The man paced behind Bruce as he spoke. "You'll have a chance to answer. If you don't, I’ll give him five lashes. Ten if you lie.” Clark jerked at the chains that bound him, clearly upset with whatever he saw.

"You keep a Fortress in the Arctic, correct?"

Bruce heard the man pause a few paces behind him but knew better than to look back. Clark hesitated briefly. Bruce shook his head slightly, wanting Clark to know he did not need to answer.

"Five then."

"Wait!"

A slight whistle then a snap preluded the blinding pain across Bruce’s shoulders. He groaned aloud, then bit into his cheek to silence himself. It was a whip, that much he knew, thick enough to do serious injury if his captor wished. Each blow narrowed his vision down to the space just in front of him, of Clark sitting, straining as he tried to release himself. Bringing his chin up, he struggled to focus on Clark's features.

It stopped and their captor repeated himself. "Do you have a Fortress in the Arctic?"

"Yes," Clark answered immediately. Bruce exhaled through his nose. Though Clark's cooperation provided him a modicum of relief, it equally ensured that this would continue. His weakness revealed, neither of them would see freedom until their captor had extracted all the information he wished to know.

"What are the coordinates?"

Clark again found Bruce's eyes, silent apology clear. Bruce twisted his hands around the chains above him and held on.

In sets of five, the lashes proceeded, but Clark was not able to keep his silence for long. “Stop!” he shouted, voice shaking with something Bruce could not label wholly as anger or fear.

The man stopped and Bruce slumped forwards, hanging fully from his wrists. Pushing slightly at Bruce’s shoulder, their captor spun him around so that Clark could see the damage done to his back. Head down, Bruce dizzily watched the man's feet pass him, going to stand in front of Clark. Slowly, his senses began to return to him, no longer crowded out by the awful sting of the whip.

“Go on," the man prompted Clark, "Or would you like me to continue?” With a quick signal to the guards, the chain attached to Bruce's' wrists went slack.

Bruce collapsed on the floor and lay still, half-hunched over on himself. This reprieve did not mean mercy. Boot on his shoulder, the man forced Bruce onto his stomach.

"83.64-" Clark began.

"S," Bruce hissed, desperate to stop him. Clark hesitated, long enough for the man to let the knotted tail of the whip to slide down the stripes on Bruce's back. Bruce gasped aloud. Clark rattled off the rest of the coordinates.

"Good." The boot lifted off Bruce's shoulder. "Now, he's outlived his usefulness."

The knife returned, thrusting deep into his back. And though another wave of pain struck him, it seemed oddly distant. There was a blur of action and noise above him, shouting, a great rending of metal, the nauseating crack of bones, before he was swept up into Clark's arms. Resting limply against his chest, Bruce could see Clark's jaw, set taut and angry, his hands bloody, his eyes searing red. He remembered little else.

 

* * *

 

There was food, on occasion, though Bruce could not guess where Kal had procured it. To his knowledge, Clark had never kept food here, not finding it necessary. Perhaps, Bruce mused, the machines that patrolled the halls were instructed care for him.

Throughout the day, plates would appear in a hollow in the rear wall, shuttled through some inner system of tubes that ran throughout the fortress. A latch would click, a portal would open, and inside Bruce would find whatever it was that Kal provided him.

It was a promising sign, at least, that Kal at least did not want him to go hungry. Briefly, Bruce had speculated whether there might have been any contamination, but poison or drugs were never weapons Clark had used, or even needed to.

The system of tubing proved to be of real value. Along inside of the tube ran a narrow pipe, white and entirely see through. It glittered with some sort of transmitted energy, pulses of blue and gold light shooting through it. Bruce eventually determined it to be some sort of optic cabling. If he could find a way to convert the pulses of light to information he could understand he would be able to decide if it was useful. That at least gave him purpose, a task to break the monotony of his featureless cell.

 

* * *

 

The lights dimmed to a dusk-like glow before Kal returned. Bruce exhaled slowly as Kal paced across the room, barely glancing at him. The work he had done to the cabling was hidden only by the small portal.

Kal paid it no mind. Instead, he stood in silence, hands clasped behind his back. The wall nearest the door turned translucent, allowing the last rays of sunlight to filter through the crystal. For several long minutes, Kal remained there, watching the sun dip below the horizon. Bruce did not rise from his seat at the edge of the bed, choosing instead to simply observe him. Again, he was struck by his resemblance to Clark.

“What do you know about the insurgency?” Kal finally asked. His eyes remained fixed on the rim of gold that lingered on the horizon.

“Nothing.” Bruce replied. Kal glanced at him, his distrust clear, but Bruce only scoffed. “Kal, I’ve met no one here other than you, Diana and Hal. There’s nothing I could be hiding from you.”

"Nothing?" Kal turned slowly towards him. “Not even Joker?”

Bruce blinked, but fell silent.

“You brought him here, didn’t you?” Kal stalked close, accusing. “After everything I’ve done,” his voice abruptly caught and he turned away from Bruce. “Now he’s loose, able to do it all over again.” He sat at the foot of the bed, his sudden change in mood leaving Bruce scrambling to keep up.

Bracing himself against the bedframe, Bruce cautiously stood and approached him. “What happened?”

“Joker,” was the initial reply, and that already told Bruce more than enough. "He targeted me."

“Lois?” Bruce tentatively asked.

Kal responded with a tight nod, teeth clenched. “She was pregnant.”

“I’m sorry.” Bruce found Kal’s eyes, meeting his gaze steadily. He reached out for him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“I—I was so angry I lost control." Kal hunched over, flinching away from Bruce’s hand. “I killed him.”

“Joker?”

“Yes.” There was a brightness in Kal’s eyes, a fear that made Bruce uncomfortable.

Bruce licked his lips, then ducked his head. "Kal," he squeezed slightly at his shoulder. “I don’t know if he ever told you this, but I often thought about killing him myself.”

“Why didn’t you?” Kal’s voice grew rougher, half out of anger, half out of sadness.

Bruce abruptly straightened, taken off guard by the rage in his voice. “I was afraid what might happen if I did.” He inhaled slowly. “And once, when I lost control, a friend stopped me.”

“I wish you had.” Kal turned oddly wistful.

“Stopped you?”

“Killed him,” came the answer through gritted teeth. Bruce did not answer; that was not something he was willing to apologize for.

Incrementally, Kal’s posture softened. “I never truly understood your—his mindset until it happened,” he admitted. “Though I had often wondered what it would be like if you had lived the same life I had. But, when it happened, the only way I could think to make sure that it never happened again was to take matters into my own hands.”

Bruce nodded, swallowing slightly.

“And then, I thought you’d understand how I felt.”

In a way, Bruce knew he was right. His crusade had been adopted out of a need for control; a desperate want to stop this from happening to any child again. He had failed in that repeatedly but had seldom pushed beyond the boundaries of his own domain.

However, Bruce knew that was not what Kal wanted to hear. He floundered momentarily, not quite willing to confront his obvious grief with hostility. Instead, he attempted to find common ground.

“Joker always hurt those I was closest to. My family, friends, and people under my protection. I don’t doubt that’s why he targeted you.” Bruce inhaled. “Though he couldn’t have known what the consequences would be, he would have loved the irony of us becoming enemies.”

“That doesn’t help me,” Kal replied brusquely. And Bruce could understand, he was sure that it didn’t.

“Then, let me tell you about how the other Bruce would feel.” Bruce paused and, when Kal did not try to interject, he continued. “He—the Bruce you know—I’m sure he feels immense guilt. That he does blame himself for what happened to you.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s how I would feel.” Bruce edged closer. “He blames himself for not being able to protect you and your family. For not killing Joker when he had the chance. He feels all of it.”

Slowly, Kal nodded. "Bruce?" he finally ventured, catching his hand in his own. He drew it upwards, towards his own chest. "How do I know if you're the same man he is?"

"You don't." Swallowing, Bruce withdrew his hand. Kal let his fingers slide through his own, brow furrowed.

Finding a seat in the armchair, Bruce tried to change the topic. “Can I ask you about this universe’s Bruce?”

Kal shrugged, which Bruce took as something close enough to agreement.

“Were you close?”

“Yes,” Kal briefly closed his eyes. “He was my closest friend. I would have done anything for him, but it turned out he wouldn’t do the same for me.”

“Were you intimate?”

Kal turned sharply towards him. Bruce tensed slightly, sensing danger. Eventually relaxing, Kal replied, “Rao, no. He never saw me that way.” But he leaned forward, knees nearly brushing Bruce’s. “Why would you think that? In your world did you…?” He trailed off, too polite to put it in words.

“No,” Bruce quickly shook his head. “It’s just the way you talk about him, I thought you might have.”

Again, Kal hesitated to ask, “Did you want to?”

Bruce couldn’t stop the humorless chuckle from escaping him. “That wouldn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

“He’s not interested.”

“How do you know that?”

Again, Bruce laughed, dry and nervous, but he bit his tongue.

Slowly, Kal edged forwards, until they were only a hair’s breadth apart. Bruce eyed him, certain that in spite of the conversation, in spite of this position, Kal would not bridge the gap between them.

Kal closed his eyes and pressed his lips to Bruce’s. Shocked by the contact, however much he anticipated it, Bruce recoiled. Kal only pressed him deeper into his seat, pinning him by his shoulders. He pushed his tongue into Bruce’s mouth and, lips parting, Bruce allowed him entrance. It took time for his mind to catch up, reminding himself that he could not risk this sort of distraction.

Abruptly, Bruce twisted his neck, turning from the kiss. “Kal,” he demanded, fist pressed against Kal’s chest. “What are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Kal curled his fingers through Bruce’s hair. He forced his head back, baring Bruce's throat.

Bruce went still, paralyzed by the image of him. Kal's blue eyes were dark, lips pink and full and moist. He could not differentiate him from Clark, not this close. He smelled just the same. This was Clark, as Bruce had never let himself imagine him.

He could not deny that his attraction to Clark superseded any burgeoning interest in the man before him. It felt dirty to even let the fantasy surface, but Bruce was certain as Kal drew him closer he was not the only one thinking of another.

His cheeks glowed pink, but his lips showed no redness from the friction. Bruce silently cursed himself as he thought of twisting his hands through Kal’s hair, doing something, anything just so that he might have some effect on his invulnerable body.

Still holding Bruce by his hair, Kal brushed their lips together. He grew more forceful as he kissed him again. Bruce lifted his hips up, pressing into him eagerly. All this time, and he and Clark had never done this. Why had they never done this?

The unmistakable chirp of Kal’s communicator made him jerk back. Breathing heavily, Kal broke away to retrieve it. Frowning, he put the device in his ear.

“What?” he growled, turning his back. “I’ll be there.” He glanced back at Bruce.

Somewhat dazed, Bruce let his head rest against the back of the chair. “Is something wrong?” he asked when he remembered himself.

“It’s him. Batman.” Kal stroked his thumb idly across Bruce’s cheekbone. “You’ll be safe here,” he promised.

Bruce pushed his luck. Sitting up, he covered Kal’s hand with his own. “I’d be far more helpful to you in the field.”

“I know,” Kal nodded almost wistfully. “But I don’t trust you.” He pressed a final, gentler kiss to Bruce’s brow before sweeping out the door.

 

* * *

 

The kiss loomed in the forefront of Bruce’s mind, a constant reminder. He struggled to see it as anything other than some sort of infidelity. Some sort of betrayal. A sense of trepidation settled over him, though Bruce was not accustomed to doubting his conquests.

But thinking of Clark like this—Clark who didn’t share his attraction, Clark who would never want to share such physicality with him—seemed wrong.

If not for the interruption, Bruce was certain he would have gone further. He would have let Kal do whatever he wished with him, pressing him down on the scarcely used bed, kissing him until he reached for his cock.

There had been no other reason for him to stop. Nothing other than the standard of duty calls that Bruce was all too familiar with. Even as he left, Kal had looked at him, devouring him with his eyes alone.

Clark had looked at him like that once, simultaneously frightened and curious, hungry and timid.

 

* * *

  

* * *

 

Even slouching, it was easy to spot Clark at the end of the bar. Tonight night he stood, smile uncertain, listening to the conversation of the cluster of fellow reporters. A woman from the Gazette stood close to his side. She would occasionally turn to try to include him, asking about his work or nudging gently at his shoulder. Then, Clark would offer some small affirmation before ducking his head and falling silent again.

“Excuse me,” Bruce called loudly, shouldering his way into their circle. He grinned as they all turned towards him, as did everyone else in earshot. The charity benefit had already gone on far too long, enough for Bruce Wayne to grow bored and withdraw from Gotham’s higher social circles.

“I need to borrow Kent for a moment.” Bruce wrapped a hand around Clark’s arm, squeezing tight enough he could feel his bicep under his over-large sport coat. Clark hunched in on himself, blinking at him in near-comical confusion.

“What for?” the Gazette reporter cut in, ready to defend Clark from this interloper.

“Nothing important,” Bruce tried to soothe her, tone oversweet. “It’s just a little talk about something I saw in the Planet.”

An uncommon look of annoyance settled on Clark’s face, though it was quickly banished as he pushed his glasses up his nose. “Surely it can wait for another time, Mr. Wayne.”

“Why wait when I already have you here?” Bruce pulled at his arm, knowing he could not budge him if he tried. “It’s not often that I see you in Gotham.”

Clark won't resist him long enough to make a scene, at least not in public. For a moment, Bruce wondered if the Gazette reporter was about to make a stand, to try to defend Clark’s honor. However, she relented with a warning: “Don’t keep him too long, or else I’ll come looking.”

“Don’t worry,” Bruce waved casually as he led Clark away. “I’ll have him back soon.”

“What is it?” Clark grumbled as soon as they were out of earshot. He seemed unable to decide if he should be annoyed, at least until he got further information. “What do you want?”

Bruce pulled open a door behind the grand staircase leading into a service corridor. “A lookout.” He briskly led him down the hallway and through a set of double doors.

“No one else was available?” Clark gently brushed off his hand and easily matched his pace.

“Didn’t think I’d need one, but they've made changes to their surveillance since I surveyed this place.” He glanced back at Clark, smiling slightly, “And well, you weren’t busy.”

“I do actually have friends here,” Clark started. “So, I’d appreciate if you at least told me why I had to leave.”

“A man called the Dealer owns this building. I need access to the security system, so that when I come back in costume, I can control it.”

“Do I want to know what it is that he deals in?”

“No.” Bruce glanced back at him and, seeing that he found that answer unsatisfying, continued. “Rare items of any kind. Artifacts, animals, humans.”

“That’s—”

“Here,” Bruce again took his arm, pulling him into a tiny alcove. It was just large enough for the two of them to fit together, Bruce leaning over the control panel set in the wall. “Give me a heads up if anyone’s coming.”

“What’s the plan if they do?” Clark turned to face out from the alcove, half-obscured by the shadows. His shoes squeaked on the aging linoleum and Bruce winced. “Sorry.”

“I haven’t seen anyone back here all night, but if someone walks back, we’ll leave and I’ll try again another night.” Clark nodded, attention seeming to drift as he let his senses expand, taking in the sounds that came echoing down from either end of the hallway.

“Does the Dealer operate in Metropolis?” Clark asked as Bruce worked open the control panel, his shoulder grazing Clark’s back.

“He uses Gotham City as his international port, but I don’t doubt he has a presence in Metropolis as well, unless Luthor’s muscled him out.” Bruce reached into his jacket, drawing a small tablet. “Seems to me there’d be plenty of artifacts of interest in Metropolis,” he added pointedly.

“What are you saying?” Clark took the bait with a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Nothing at all,” Bruce responded, plugging into the port near the bottom of the system. “Just a suggestion that maybe you’d have less trouble if there weren’t so much alien technology on the streets.”

“Is this where you tell me what you would do if it was Gotham?”

“Of course not.” Bruce continued, half-focused on the red glow of the tablet screen.

“Bruce--” Clark began, voice low.

“Unless this is you asking for--”

“No, Bruce.” Clark turned towards him. “It’s the Dealer. He’s coming from the right with five others,” he nodded down the hallway.

Hastily, Bruce began to tuck the mess of cabling back into place. “There’s also someone coming from the other direction,” Clark warned, bracing his arms on either side of the alcove as if to shield him.

Bruce glanced down the hallway, though he had seen no hiding places when he had first surveyed it. The only place that offered them any kind of anonymity were the shadows of the alcove where they already stood. But simply standing here, crowded together in the half-dark would not excuse their whereabouts. Bruce winced as the door at the end of the hallway swung open, followed by the sound of a dozen footsteps.

Dragging Clark close with a finger looped under his tie, Bruce whispered to him, “Do me a favor, alright?”

“What?” Clark hissed. He was already tense and seemed to only grow more anxious as the men came closer.

“Don’t punch me until after we leave.”

“What do you mean? What’s your plan?”

“I’m going to kiss you.” Bruce reached for Clark’s glasses, gently pushing them up over his head and pulling them free. Even in this light, his eyes sparkled blue in a way no human could ever match.

Clark stared blankly at him, even as Bruce stretched up and pressed their lips together. He went utterly still, hands frozen at his sides. Cursing him internally, Bruce reached for his hands, guiding one to his waist, the other to his shoulder.

As the footsteps grew closer, Clark seemed to suddenly remember himself. The stiff set of his shoulders softened as he allowed Bruce to direct him. He kissed Bruce back, allowing him to draw him into a longer and far lewder kiss. For the moment that the group passed by them, Bruce allowed himself to lose himself entirely to the kiss, smiling softly into his embrace as Clark stroked his fingers down his cheek to curl underneath his jaw.

The second party passed them seconds later, a pair of waiters, bored, tired, and rolling a cart of empty catering dishes. As the squeaking of the cart faded, Bruce released Clark and leaned back.

“Have they gone?”

“Uh--” Clark turned and let his head fall back. His cheeks were flushed red, his hair mussed by Bruce’s hands. Just looking at him was enough to make Bruce want to dive back in, to do it all over again. “Just a second.”

Bruce remained close to him, breath carefully controlled and hands still on him. Never had it been so hard to just remain still. He could feel the barely concealed strength of him, warm and solid, a thought he desperately tried to tamp down on. Clark seemed barely able to control his own emotions, seeming largely lost to breathless shock as he strained to compose himself.

“The Dealer’s in the elevator.”

“Good.” Bruce made to disengage from him.

“Wait.” Clark wrapped a hand around the back of Bruce’s neck, pulling him back in. Bruce hesitated, before opening up to him. Only feet away, a door swung open.

Reluctantly, they broke apart to the loud clearing of a throat. A man in a dark suit hauled Clark back by his shoulder. Meekly, Clark allowed himself to be pulled away from Bruce.

Bruce caught a flicker of recognition as the guard’s eyes found his face. However, the guard did not seem swayed by his celebrity. “This is a private party.”

“We’re both invited guests.” Bruce straightened, stepping out of the alcove. Passing Clark’s glasses to him, he began to fumble through his coat, looking for his invitation.

“And this area is restricted.”

“Restricted?” Bruce glanced at Clark, then back at the guard, overplaying his confusion. “I didn’t see any signs.”

“I’m going to have to ask you two to leave,” the guard continued steadily, seemingly unfazed by Bruce’s act.

“We didn’t mean any harm, we were just looking for someplace quiet, you know—”

“Now.” The guard pulled at Clark’s arm and he willingly followed along.

“Wait, look,” Bruce attempted to reason with him, trailing behind the pair as the security guard frog-marched Clark out a side exit. “Surely I could convince you to let us back in.” Slyly, he reached for his wallet, drawing out a bill.

The guard paused on the threshold, considering the pair. Then, with a shove, he pushed Clark into Bruce, sending them both tumbling out the door. The note fluttered to the ground beside them.

When the guard made his way back inside, Clark exhaled loudly, brushing dust from his trousers as he rose. He offered a hand, pulling Bruce to his feet before scooping up the bill from the ground. “Guess we’re probably not allowed back.”

“Probably not.” Sensing his annoyance, Bruce suppressed a smile. It was dark enough here, in the shadows of a couple conifers, that they could stay here for as long as they liked. He leaned against the low wall that surrounded the parking lot, eyes fixed on Clark.

Clark offered him the bill. “Keep it,” Bruce waved him off. Sighing, Clark laid the bill beside him on the wall, then leaned there as well.

“Tell me you at least got what you came for,” Clark scuffed his shoe over the asphalt. He lifted his head, eyes sweeping up the grand building.

“Most of it,” Bruce admitted. Clark glanced sharply at him. “It’ll be enough,” Bruce hastily reassured him. Clark nodded absently. “And Clark, I’m sorry.”

“For which part?” Clark nearly laughed, though Bruce could not tell if his amusement was genuine.

Bruce ran his tongue over his teeth, sensing danger in his question. “Kissing you. I shouldn’t have sprung that on you.”

“It’s not a problem, I know it didn’t mean anything,” Clark waved off his apology, without meeting his eyes. “I just, I better go."

Bruce watched him walk out into the glow of the streetlights, already angling towards Fifth.

Then he imagined a different scenario. Calling after him, inviting him home. Perhaps they would make it to Wayne Manor, to sprawl panting across his bed, only half undressed in their hurry touch each other. Or perhaps they would only make it to his car, where Bruce would push him down in the passenger seat and seal his mouth around his cock.

That was the only time they kissed. Almost frustratingly, nothing changed between them. Neither saw fit to bring up the encounter again, unwilling to broach such a difficult subject.

Bruce did not push the topic. He barely allowed himself to think about it. It didn’t seem fair to consider it as some sort of romantic dalliance, not when Clark had allowed it purely for the sake of their cover. Still, it was difficult not to let the fantasy creep in, coupled now with the memory of what it was like to kiss him.

 

* * *

 

Snow still in his hair, Kal opened the door. As it slid shut behind him, he crossed the floor in seven broad strides, while Bruce stood to meet him. Immediately, they pressed together, Kal pulling him in chest to chest, hip to hip. Bruce put his hands to Kal, curling his fingers over the back of his neck and gladly kissed him.

“I thought about you every second I was away,” Kal breathed against his lips, before drawing him into an embrace. He wrapped on arm over Bruce’s shoulder, the other resting in the small of his back.

“Where were you?” Bruce carefully fished for information, desperate for any word from the outside world.

“Doesn’t matter,” Kal shook his head, then dove in for another kiss.

Bruce could smell the scent of battle on him, acrid and heavy. He had come home smelling much the same on many nights. Nights of great fires and trauma and fear.

“You smell of smoke,” he murmured when they broke apart. Though Bruce delivered the comment with no tone of judgement, nothing beyond casual observation, Kal jerked back.

“It was him.” Kal clenched his hand, squeezing at Bruce’s arm. “He destroyed the Watchtower.” His grip turned so tight Bruce could feel it through his armor, digging into his skin. "He has others with him now, from your world."

“I—” Bruce hesitated, not willing to feign concern, but not ready to antagonize him. “I see.”

His apparent apathy wasn’t good enough for Kal, who brought his other hand up to grab Bruce’s jaw. “Did you know?”

“No,” Bruce replied firmly, then added with slight incredulity, “How could I know?” He had not seen anyone other than the Joker since he arrived on this world, before Superman's Regime captured him. He had already told Kal as much.

Kal dug his fingers into his cheeks as he considered him. “I have only your word for how you came to be here, up until Lantern found you.”

“Are you suggesting that I allowed myself to be captured?” Bruce nearly smiled at the accusation; it was ludicrous. “What would I have to gain from that?”

“I don’t know,” Kal admitted, dropping his hand. “An inside man?” His forehead smoothed as he grew calmer. “Sorry, it’s just so hard to trust anyone after—”

Brushing Bruce’s hair back, Kal dipped down to kiss him again. Bruce allowed the contact but did not lean into the warmth of his touch. Leisurely slow, Kal’s lips traveled towards his jaw, over the beginnings of stubble at his chin and down to his throat.

“What future do you want for me here?” Tentatively, Bruce lifted his chin, baring a stretch of his throat for Kal to mouth at.

“You, at my side, where you belong.” Kal curled his fingers in Bruce’s hair, holding him possessively.

“Your servant?”

“No,” Kal was briefly offended. He pulled back, though his hand remained in Bruce’s hair. “A partner. My closest ally. My—” Kal hesitated, “lover, if that’s what you want.”

Bruce inhaled as Kal’s lips brushed near his ear. “I see,” he breathed cautiously.

“Is that not what you want?” Kal tilted his head, seemingly confused by his reluctance.

“Would you still keep me here?”

“Only until I can trust you.”

“When will that be?” Bruce pressed.

Kal seemed to consider him for a moment. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Maybe if you showed me that you trusted me in return, maybe then I’d have faith in you.”

“You want to have sex with me,” Bruce stated plainly. Kal did not flinch, did not deny it, instead tilting his head and waiting for his response.

It should not have been a difficult consideration. Bruce had often traded his attentions for information, favors, and insider status. But he could not help but be disgusted by an offer so plainly stated, and without any guarantee that he would enjoy any new freedom.

It was difficult to feel any warmth towards a man who rocketed so dangerously between moods. Just minutes earlier, Kal had him accused him of a frankly impossible deception. He could not help but be convinced that such a bargain would give him little guarantee of safety. And, the second, more sentimental dilemma was if kissing Kal felt like infidelity, how would further intimacy weigh on him? This shouldn’t mean anything to Bruce at all, but somehow it did, threatening to touch a deeper truth he long avoided.

Kal drew back, eyes fixed to him. He waited quietly, hands not yet straying.

‘No’ would sound too harsh, would threaten to make Kal’s temper erupt again. “I’ll consider it,” was what Bruce settled on, though he could see on Kal’s face that he knew it was a refusal.

Nodding sharply, Kal turned on his heel. He raised his hand to the door and entered the code that allowed him to leave.

 

* * *

 

That left Bruce to resume his work on the optic cabling, soon discovering that it belonged to the surveillance system. He filtered through the feeds, first by sound alone, until he found one that interested him.

“Kal-El.” The familiar voice immediately drew Bruce’s attention. He brought up the hologram, and the darkened shapes of the main hall bloomed outwards from the stark white wall of his cell.

Diana stepped through the entryway, wreathed in gold silk. Her gait was stately slow as she paced towards Kal.

Kal stared into the crystalline mesh of the Kryptonian mainframe, apparently lost in thought. He did not flinch when she laid her hand on his shoulder, or even glance up at her. Sliding her long fingers under his cape, Diana squeezed at his shoulders. “Don’t you think that’s enough for the night?”

Shaking her hands off, Kal rose. He remained close, before breathing softly, “Not now.”

Diana stepped back, taking a long breath to collect herself. “What’s troubling you?”

“We lost the Watchtower, Diana. I thought that would be obvious.” Kal’s voice turned petulant, angry. Bruce flinched, but waited for Diana’s reply.

Calm as ever, she crossed her hands behind her back, fingers circling her bracelets. “Is that all that’s troubling you?” she prompted again, searching.

Kal cocked his head, momentarily chewing at his lip. “It’s nothing. I just spoke to Bruce’s double.”

“He’s still here?” Bruce could catch the tinge of annoyance in her voice.

“It’s the safest place for him,” Kal countered.

“Batman’s attacked the Fortress before. Who’s to say that in his universe, this man isn’t just as familiar with your security?”

“He’s not a problem.” Kal shook his head, turning from her.

Diana scoffed, but moved on. “Tell me, at least, has he provided any useful information?”

“Some.”

“What did he say?”

“Diana.” Kal glanced back at her but offered no real answer.

“So he’s told you nothing.” Diana put her hand to her hip, fingers combing through the deceptively delicate strands of her lasso. She turned, starting towards the back of the hall. “Let me talk to him.”

“No.” Kal took a step closer, blocking her path.

“Then tell me what use he is if not for information?”

Without pause, Kal replied, “I’ll use him as a hostage. If the Insurgency moves against us, I’ll execute him.”

“Alright.” Diana seemed satisfied with his answer. “I’ll hold you to that.”

 

* * *

 

Bruce did not need to make a decision, not anymore. It was clear to him what he must do. However little he knew about the motivations of the group Kal called the Insurgency, his own League was now with them. He would not allow Kal to use him as a hostage against the rest of the League.

If he could get off a distress signal before Kal noticed his absence, he hoped he could summon the rest of the League.

The door was easy now after Kal's demonstration. A pad rose to the surface at the pressure of his hand. Though the characters were all Kryptonian, it was no trouble to remember what Kal had pressed.

Quietly, Bruce stepped into the hallway. One hand braced against the glittering pillars, he started towards the chamber where on his world, Clark would keep the artifacts he collected on his travels. From here, Bruce hoped he could gather the supplies he might need to brave the Arctic wind.

Wading through the clutter of the room, Bruce picked out a handful of items. He donned a great, white mantle to shield himself from the cold. Next, he slung a coil of rope and an icepick over his shoulder. Lastly, he hung from his armor a small orb which created a broad pillar of light, which a villain had once used as a rally point for his troops.

The Fortress remained fortunately quiet as Bruce paced through its halls. He carefully wound his way to a side door, far from the grand entrance. As he pushed lightly at it, the portal swung open onto a wide white plain.

 

* * *

 

Hours into his trek, Bruce paused. One foot braced on a thin ledge of ice, he glanced back. The spires of the Fortress had dipped below the horizon a few minutes ago, and, with an hour's more time, he could activate the beacon and have some hope that the League would reach him before Kal could. A split second for Kal would be all that would determine his freedom.

Bruce dragged in one long breath to brace himself and tried to push back the pain in his thigh. Whatever recovery he had made while was confined in the Fortress had been quickly undone by his hurried journey across the ice. Resting his weight on the handle of the icepick, he started southwards again.

The brilliant red of Kal’s cape streaked through the clouds above, then dipped down towards the Earth. Just above the horizon he paused, surveying his domain.

Bruce swore under his breath and drove the head of the pick into the ice. Already, he knew that this was it. His plan had failed; he had not got out his distress signal in time. Now it would be too late, any call would bring the League into the path of a furious Superman. Bruce did not run or hide as Kal turned towards him, cape billowing in the wind.

His expression, when he came close enough, was primarily confusion. “What are you doing?” Kal asked, his toes still inches above the ground.

“Leaving.” Bruce shrugged the rope off his shoulder and leaned on the pick.

Kal blinked. “Why?”

“You were planning to kill me.”

“Kill you? How did you hear that?” came the reply, with no denial. “No, it was a threat. I never actually planned to—”

“You were going to use me as bait. Did you really expect me to allow that?”

“I—” Kal’s eyes sparked red. “I don’t see why it matters whether you agree.”

Silence fell. Bruce took a half-step back, grinding the heel of his boot into the ice. “Of course.” He swung his fist, knowing full well what the consequences would be if he made contact with Kal’s marble jaw.

With impossible speed, Kal dodged the blow, only allowing Bruce’s glove to catch the hem of his cape. Bruce stumbled off-balance. Kal took advantage of the moment to seize him by his collar and send him tumbling to the ground.

Desperately, Bruce tried to propel himself back upright. His leg nearly collapsed underneath him when he put weight on it again.

A single backhand from Kal again sent him flying, arms braced against the ice as he tried to prevent himself from crashing face first into the ground. As he scrambled to slow his fall, he found himself perilously close to the edge of a narrow canyon worn into the ice. Before he could attempt to right himself again, Kal planted his foot in the center of his back.

Bruce winced as his face pressed into the thin layer of snow that lay atop the ice. Over the lip of the crevasse he could see the deep blue depths. He could not budge Kal from this position, so he momentarily stilled.

“I never told you how I knew that you weren’t him.” Kal pulled the cloak from Bruce's shoulders, leaving him exposed to the harsh cold of the ice. “It’s easy, if you know where to look.” Digging one knee into the small of Bruce’s back, he sank down. “His lower vertebrae are fused. Held together with metal and borrowed bone.” He traced his fingers over the ridge of armor that protected Bruce’s spine, fingers dipping in between the segments.

His broad hands closed over Bruce’s shoulders, pressing him deeper into the shallow snow. “When he proved himself a traitor, I still went back to talk to him. To give him another chance. But he showed himself to be too much of a threat, so I had no other choice.” He dug his fingers into Bruce’s suit, hard enough to bruise, then lifted him slightly. His weight remained on Bruce’s back, bending his spine to its absolute limit.

“Do it,” Bruce growled. “If you’re really so desperate for revenge that you’d maim the same man twice, just do it.”

Kal slammed him back down into the ice, bruised, but otherwise unharmed. “The problem was, he recovered. I won’t make the same mistake again.” Breath knocked out of him, Bruce offered no reply.

Instead, he rolled, covering the few extra inches to carry himself over the edge of the crevasse. Then he hurtled downwards, one hand grasping at the rope tied around his waist, hoping it would hold.

Surrounded by the deep blue darkness, he finally jolted to a stop, smacking hard against the ice. Briefly stunned, Bruce did not immediately comprehend what was happening as he began to rise, the frayed rope clenched in Kal’s fist as he propelled them both skywards. Once in the air, it took only seconds for Bruce to catch the otherworldly glitter of the Fortress in the distance.

Here, the wind was so cold it hurt to breathe. Still, Bruce inhaled deeply as Kal swooped through the grey, snow-heavy clouds. He was certain that it was death that awaited him, the same consequence he faced nightly in Gotham. It provoked no real fear in him, not even the promised theatrics of an execution. His friends would know what this was: a baited trap. Hopefully, they would be ready for it.

To his surprise, Bruce was not delivered to some execution chamber that Kal had hammered into the glistening Fortress. Instead, Kal dumped him on the floor of a yawning chamber near the heart of the citadel.

Levering himself to his feet, Bruce quickly surveyed the room. These were Kal’s personal chambers. Clark had never spent much time here, preferring his apartment in Metropolis or his attic room in Smallville to the stately, but utterly alien, rooms provided for him here. These chambers seemed no more lived in than those of Clark's fortress. But this wasn’t Clark.

“There was more to it than Joker’s death, wasn’t there?” Bruce began, voicing suspicions that had gnawed at him over the last few days. “I know I wouldn’t abandon Clark over that.” Now he had nothing to lose, no more reason to hold back questions out of hope he could befriend a monster.

Bruce turned to face Kal. “You killed others.”

Wordlessly, Kal backhanded him. Bruce stumbled, then fell backwards. His lip split, he wiped blood from his mouth. “How many?”

Kicking him flat on his back, Kal clambered on top of him. He straddled Bruce’s hips and sat back. His fingers, shaking in his rage, clumsily traced down Bruce’s stomach to find the seams of his suit.

Already, Bruce could see where this road led. “Really? Is this what you’ve become?” he sneered up at him but provoked no reply.

Kal gripped at the edge of the armor that covered Bruce’s torso. Ignoring the catches, he simply pulled, ripping the plating from his stomach up to his chest. Beneath lay the more flexible undersuit, still tough enough to stop most edged weapons, but that was nothing to a man who could rend steel.

“What reaction do you want?” Bruce momentarily lay still. “Should I scream? Beg you to stop?”

Twisting at a handful of fabric, Kal pulled it upwards, baring Bruce’s stomach and chest. With more force, it tore, the elastic material peeling away from his skin. The plates that covered his shoulders came away in the mess, followed by the sleeves of his undersuit. Kal wedged his fingers under the remnants of Bruce’s cowl next. Bruce grimaced as he pulled at the heavy material hard enough to briefly jerk him up off the floor.

“You know I never wanted you. Only Clark.” Bruce grabbed Kal’s wrists, grappling with him hopelessly as Kal tore a strip of his collar away. “I was only playing along.”

Again, Kal slapped him. Bruce’s head snapped to the side, cheek stinging. “Quiet,” Kal snapped.

“Why?” Bruce demanded, raising his voice now that he had finally garnered a response. “Why should I be? What can you hold over me now?”

The soft swell of Bruce’s throat exposed, Kal wrapped his fingers around his neck. He leaned close enough that Bruce could feel the heat of his breath along his jaw as he hissed, “Your life.”

Bruce swallowed under his unrelenting grasp, then gasped, open-mouthed, as his grip tightened. Kal’s face contorted the longer he held him, grinding his teeth as his jaw bulged. Long seconds passed as Bruce’s vision greyed. He scrabbled at the back of his hand, instinct overriding logic, before finally he slid into unconsciousness.

Bruce eased awake as Kal flipped him onto his stomach. He grunted as again his leg took most of his weight but did not move. For the moment, he only breathed, taking in harsh gasps of air through his bruised throat. He could not tell how long he had lain unconscious. Long enough, at least, for Kal to strip his chest bare, leaving the tattered remnants of his suit clinging to his back.

Kal’s fingers settled at the nape of his neck. Bruce could not help but imagine the awful violence Kal could visit upon him. With the slightest pressure of his hand, he could crush his skull. His fingers could easily tear through flesh, organs, arteries, reducing his body to its basest elements. Or he could burn him, incinerate him with vision so hot scarcely any remnants of his body would remain.

But Kal’s aim was not to kill. His powerful fingers instead slid under the collar of Bruce’s suit, stretching and pulling until it began to tear at the seams. Quickly, he revealed the whole of his back, hands tracing inch by inch down the ridge of his spine. He continued to tear at the cloth, rending the material that covered Bruce down to the backs of his thighs. That left his ass and the insides of his thighs bare, though his armor remained buckled tight to his outer thighs.

When Kal leaned away to discard the tattered pieces of the suit, Bruce seized the moment of freedom to try to propel himself from his hands. He wouldn’t submit to this, not without a fight. Even if it was utterly hopeless, he would still fight.

He barely made it to his feet before Kal’s hands were on him again. Grunting in frustration, Kal seized him by his waist and shoved him back down. He twisted Bruce’s arms brutally behind his back, pulling hard enough that Bruce could not help but hiss in pain. Kal closed manacles around his wrists, then tightened them. Bruce quickly recognized the handcuffs as his own design and reached for the hidden catch with his thumb.

Kal leaned over him, arms braced on either side of Bruce’s shoulders. “If you try to take them off, I’ll take you dry.” He enclosed Bruce’s hand in his own, snapping the bone at the base of his thumb with the barest twitch of his fingers

Bruce screwed his eyes shut, swallowing down his groan of pain. It was the threat rather than the injury that led him to accept his manacles. He hated that Kal held any sway over him, but he could not escape the fact he would have a better chance at escape later if he did not antagonize Kal now.

He felt Kal’s breath against his neck as his hand traced down Bruce’s spine. His fingers were cold, nails scraping over his vertebrae before he reached Bruce’s ass. There, he grasped at one cheek and sat back, as if to look.

There was a sound Bruce could not identify and then Kal’s fingers skimmed his hole. His touch was only colder for the lube that now coated his fingers. Bruce flinched involuntarily as Kal pressed his index finger inside him, only up to the first knuckle. Lazily, he rotated the digit, before adding another and pressing deeper until Bruce could not help but whimper.

“There,” Kal hummed to himself, twirling his fingers slowly.

Strangling another whimper in his throat, Bruce turned his head. Kal proceeded slowly, pushing and pushing until the length of each finger was inside Bruce. Then he drew back to do it again, sometimes twisting his fingers, sometimes stretching them apart. The sensation alternated between a raw discomfort and the sickening feeling of slickness inside him.

“Imagine what he’d think if he saw you like this,” Kal mused. Bruce blinked his eyes open but did not attempt to look back at him. “Do you think he’d be disappointed in you, or that he’d get off on it?”

Bruce struggled to keep his voice even as Kal moved his fingers inside of him. “It doesn’t matter what _he_ thinks.”

“No?” Momentarily, Kal removed his fingers to smear his thumb over his stretched hole. “I don’t think that’s true. It matters to you.”

Now his ring finger joined the first two. Bruce sunk his teeth into his own shoulder as Kal forced it in up to his knuckle. “Only one event separates him from me. I think that I would know best what he’d think.”

“No.” Bruce couldn’t believe that was true, not if he were to ever trust in Clark again. “Far more than that separates you. Even if he killed Joker, he would accept the consequences for his actions, he would—” Bruce groaned as Kal spread his fingers again.

Voice low, Kal leaned back into his line of sight. He smirked when Bruce looked up at him. “He would wonder why you were lying there through all of this, just letting me have you.”

Bruce jerked away, gasping as Kal’s fingers abruptly came free from his ass. He turned, scrambling away as he dragged his injured leg behind him. He paused only when his back met the wall. Briefly, Bruce contemplated attacking him. The last countermeasures of his suit now ruined, he had only his body. He could break himself on Kal if he wanted, crush the bones in his legs and feet as he struck his invulnerable body. And it would do absolutely nothing.

In a single, fluid motion, Kal stood. He paced towards Bruce, pausing only when his shadow fell over him. Fingers at his chin, he forced him to lift his head. “That’s what I wanted to see.” He traced the outline of Bruce’s lips with his thumb. “Fear."

Kal kicked Bruce’s thighs apart, ignoring the wounded cry Bruce uttered when Kal touched his injury. Kneeling between them, Kal caught his lips in a bruising kiss. Bruce bit him, nipping at unyielding flesh as Kal pushed his tongue into his mouth. He kept his eyes stubbornly open, unable to focus on Kal’s features with him this smotheringly close.

Grabbing him by his calf, Kal pushed his uninjured leg back towards his chest. Held like this, Bruce could not shield himself even as he felt Kal’s slippery fingers return to his skin, guiding his cock into Bruce's body.

Bruce narrowed his vision to the smallest set of goals he could still safely attain. He wouldn’t cry out. He wouldn’t give Kal the pleasure of begging him to stop.

What should have been an anguished shout, Bruce swallowed into a moan. He couldn’t keep his eyes open through it, not as Kal immediately began to thrust inside him. Bruce gasped as Kal drew back, groaned as he pushed in. His pace was neither fast nor slow, but powerful, unrelenting. Kal hauled him closer, dragging his hips up over his knees. Only Bruce’s head and shoulders rested against the floor, sliding helplessly back into the wall with every snap of his hips.

Kal hooked Bruce’s leg up over his shoulder, then buried his cock deeper inside him. It was sickening to watch his face, always so familiar, as he got off on this. It was clear not just physical pleasure that led to the uncomfortably giddy half-grin that turned his mouth. It was the control, the humiliation, an absolute hatred turned sideways until only this conquest could ever be enough to sate him.

Bruce let his eyes unfocus. He sank back limply as he searched for some way to keep himself from conflating this man with Clark. He seized upon a forgotten memory, a one-night stand with a man he would never see again. He had been rough, though only because Bruce had asked him to be. Sacrificing that memory, Bruce willed himself to see that man’s face sneering above him. Not Clark’s.

He could not shut out Kal’s groan as he came, then the gentle murmur that followed. “Bruce,” he whispered, powerful muscles going slack as he lay across him. The solid warmth of his body enveloped Bruce, soft hair brushing Bruce’s jaw. It might have comforted him, in any other circumstance, but Bruce remained tense beneath him, still uncomfortably impaled.

Kal seemed determined to keep him from retreating into himself. He framed Bruce’s cheek with one hand, preventing him from turning away. Bruce whimpered when Kal pulled out of him, then lay still, his uncomfortably cramped legs splayed open.

“Look at you,” Kal smirked down at him. “You're enjoying this.” He slid his thumb up the underside of Bruce’s cock, where it lay flushed and swollen against his hip. His hand dipped lower, squeezing at Bruce’s balls.

Bruce bit into his lip, stifling a moan. He shut his eyes, though that did nothing to block out Kal’s touch. “You know I'm not.”

“Aren’t you?” Gently, Kal rolled his balls in his hand. “Then what's this? I thought self-control was what you were best at. Controlling your emotions, your mind, your body.”

Bruce gave no reply, still trying to will himself to be numb to this, though that was not a skill he had ever learned.

“You’ll come for me,” Kal told him calmly, self-assured. He threaded an arm beneath Bruce’s shoulders, lifting and turning him. He sat on the bare floor, back propped against the foot of the nearby bed. Pushing and pulling at Bruce, he arranged him in his lap, cradling him against his chest.

He wrapped his hand tight around Bruce’s cock and begin to stroke him. “There,” Kal breathed, as Bruce began to relax against him. “I knew you’d get off on this.”

“What do you expect me to do?” Bruce turned his head sideways, powerless to stop himself from leaning against Kal’s shoulder for support. “The body reacts when it’s touched. It shows only reflex, not intention.”

Laughing softly, Kal dipped down to press his lips to the back of Bruce’s neck. Bruce fell silent, attempting to center his mind on anything else.

“What are you thinking?” Kal whispered. His thumb strayed over the head of Bruce’s cock.

“Quiet,” Bruce snapped, furious at himself for the way his mind strayed just at the sound of his voice. It was not looks alone that Kal and Clark shared, it was voice, scent, body, right down to his genetics.

“Are you thinking of him?”

Lips pressed in a flat line, Bruce refused to answer.

“I thought about doing this with my Bruce.” He picked up his pace and Bruce could not help but pant. “I thought about keeping him here.”

“Is that what you want for me?”

“Possibly,” Kal mouthed along his shoulder. “But only until I capture him.”

Bruce balled his hands into fists, fingers again straying over the latch in the handcuffs. “Kal, I—”

“You want to use his name, don’t you?” Kal’s lips trailed up Bruce’s neck to his ear. “You can. I don’t mind.”

His free hand moved up, gripping Bruce’s jaw and forcing their lips together. Though Bruce tried to recoil, he could not prevent Kal from snaking his tongue into his mouth.

Bruce flicked the release free and seized at Kal’s arm, trying to free himself from the hand circled around his most tender anatomy. But Kal’s hands were stronger than steel and he quickly caught Bruce’s wrists and pressed them against his own chest. With Bruce contained, he continued to stroke him.

“Kal,” Bruce twisted, growing desperate as he felt heat grow in his belly. He wanted only to protect that last shred of dignity. To pretend that Kal had not bested him.

“It’s alright,” Kal tried to soothe him. “You can come.”

And Bruce did, shuddering against the sweaty, sticky heat of Kal’s chest. As he went limp against him, Kal wiped his hand clean on Bruce's stomach. Kal stood and without his support Bruce slumped back on the floor, letting the cold of the Fortress sink into his bones.

Kal left quickly, door sliding shut behind him. Bruce remained like that, absorbing the welcome chill for time he could not guess. He shut his eyes, allowing the floor to ground him. Then, reluctantly, he rolled onto his side to take stock of the damage.

He reeked of sex, the mingled scent of his and Kal’s sweat stuck to his body. Between his thighs he could feel the faint stickiness of lube and cum. He flinched as he put his fingers to himself, finding raw and oversensitive flesh.

Slowly, he pushed himself up on one knee. Bracing himself with a hand on the crystalline wall, he propelled himself to his feet.

Bruce did not bother to check the door that led out of the room; he knew it would be locked. Instead, he made his way towards a more private alcove, leaning on the wall for support. Through the narrow archway, he found what was the Kryptonian approximation of a bathroom.

There was a mirror there, or something like it. The surface moved and changed like water, only the center resolving a clear image. A sink and other amenities lined the walls, each close enough to their human counterparts to be of little interest.

Bruce did his best to ignore the mirror as he stripped away his remaining armor. He already knew his injuries, the swelling over his left eye enough to partially obscure his vision and the taste of blood remained on his lips. He felt the bruises on his throat when he swallowed and could see a myriad of small scrapes and contusions on his knees and elbows. The pulsing pain of his thumb, as inconsequential as it might be, was impossible to ignore, however familiar the injury. And, as ever, the tearing pain remained in his thigh.

He hobbled onto the hexagonal pad that served as something like a shower. Almost immediately, warm water flowed over him. He spent more time there than he should have, before wandering back out into the larger room to find something to wear.

The bureau of clothes was not full, as Bruce had expected, of over-large plaid, jeans, and boots. Instead, it contained a rainbow of clothes, foreign in both appearance and fabric, all apparently of Kryptonian origin.

The main colors were, perhaps unsurprisingly, bold blues, crimson, and an array of golds. Many bore the insignia of Kal’s family, some in the same broad, shining crest that he wore, others delicately embroidered with the design at the shoulders.

At the very least, he found black, though it bore the silver crest of the House of El. It clung close to his skin, allowing him to buckle his what remained of his armor over it. He still had his boots, his braces, and the plates that protected his outer thighs. But, at this point, it was only armor.

There was a cloak too, with a wide hood that shadowed Bruce’s face, obscuring most of his features from view. He pulled it down over his shoulders to cover the silver crest that decorated his chest.

Slowly, he started towards the door. There he found a viewscreen that showed a feed much the same as what he had conjured in his cell.

“You know I can hear him.” Bruce caught a familiar voice on one channel, announcing Kal’s return. “I’d know where he was even if he was hundreds of miles away.” Bruce drew up the hologram to see who might have accompanied him.

An impossible sight confronted him. Two men stood on opposite sides of the main hall, each wearing a red cape. One was obviously Kal, the symbol on his chest warped, the navy of his suit so dark it was almost black. The other wore a lighter shade of blue, everything about him familiar.

“I know he’s alive,” Clark continued.

“He’s here,” Kal admitted. “But he’s mine.”

“Yours?” Clark scoffed. His easy smile hit Bruce like a punch in the gut, an expression so different from any he had seen from Kal. “I don’t think you know him at all.”

“I ‘know’ him better than you do.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Though Clark might not have understood the slight, Bruce did. Flinching, he shut off the hologram as a great quake shook the building.

 

* * *

 

Though Clark might never have explicitly allowed it, Bruce had learned the layout of the Fortress. From Bruce’s own memory and the few brief glimpses of the hallway, he knew that Kal had not changed much. Below, in the ice, lay dozens of rooms filled with curiosities. Clark had never given him time to study it all, but Bruce at least knew which room held the armory.

The door was easy enough to unlock. Unlike the door to Bruce’s cell, it bore a circular pad recognizable as a keypad. The code was frustratingly simple, and no different from the one Clark himself used. Bruce could not help but wonder if Kal had forgotten to change it as his morals warped.

Over his head, Bruce heard the sounds of their battle.

He could not help but wonder where was Diana? Hal? Oliver? Anyone who might be able to aid Clark. But, as these things happened, he reasoned they had duties of their own.

 

* * *

 

The armory was filled with Kryptonian weapons, meant to fight Kryptonians. However, frustratingly, many of them were designed to be used on a planet with a red sun. That left the vast array of edged weapons and lasers useless.

Most interesting among the objects was a suit of armor that stood on its own. It was clearly mechanized, functioning under the propulsion of some unseen power source. It reminded Bruce of a dozen plans he had drawn up for suits of armor that might bring him close to the level of Superman. At the very least, he hoped this warsuit might do the same.

It fit close enough to Bruce’s frame, having apparently been designed for Kal. By who, Bruce could not guess, as he did not think Kal would not have created the weapon on his own. Then again, he did not know the man.

Once inside, the chest panel slid down, encasing Bruce in metal. The controls, though labelled in Kryptonian, were intuitive enough. He puzzled only over the meanings of the buttons near his right hand.

The sound of a harsh impact above jolted Bruce into action. He ran and jumped, catapulting through two levels of flooring to bring himself close to the main hall.

Easily, he brought the suit into a run, dashing down the hallway far faster than human speed would allow. As the great hall opened up around him, he watched as Kal struck Clark in the chest, sending him sailing backwards into the wall behind him.

He wasted no time before plunging into the melee. The great hands of the suit easily closed around Kal’s shoulders and with a great heave, Bruce hauled him off of Clark.

“Rao,” Kal swore as he crashed to the floor.

“Bruce,” Clark gasped, locking eyes through the transparent visor. He grinned sunnily, despite the bruises marring his cheek. Before he could utter another word, Kal struck Bruce from behind, nearly toppling him.

Clark scrambled to his feet as Bruce turned to face Kal. At Bruce’s side, he faced down his double.

Kal lunged first, angling for Clark’s head. Though the warsuit provided strength and sturdiness to match a Kryptonian, he still could not counter his speed. Only Clark could, shifting left and ducking low to strike Kal in the stomach. Wrestling, they slid to the opposite side of hall, Bruce close behind.

Winded, Kal stumbled but still managed to wrap his arm around Clark’s neck. He slammed his fist into the side of Clark’s head, hard enough to send a shockwave thundering through the Fortress. The grand crystalline lattice above them crumbled, icy shards showering the floor.

It was an awful blow, enough to cause Clark to lose his footing, clearly dazed. Kal struck him three more times in rapid succession, and though Bruce was only feet away, it was not enough to stop him. Smirk spreading across his lips, Kal turned back to Bruce, allowing Clark to crash to the floor. Unconscious, Bruce suspected, though he could not spare the time to check.

The suit was remarkably responsive to Bruce’s movements, allowing him to maneuver almost as well as he could with his own body.

However more brutal Kal might be, he still did not possess any real skill in fighting. Just raw, deadly power. With his strength evenly matched, Bruce able to sidestep the next punch that Kal threw and take him off balance, grappling him to the floor.

Kal struggled viciously against Bruce, fingers tearing at his armor, though he proved barely able to dent it. This time, Bruce did not make the mistake of letting go of him. He locked the clawed hand of the suit tight around Kal’s wrist and pulled it underneath him until he arched, wincing. Held like this, Kal could barely move without threatening to dislocate his shoulder, though he still flailed his free hand wildly, trying pull open Bruce’s helmet.

Bruce hauled back and struck him, the warsuit’s armored knuckles thundering into his cheek, then again into his jaw. As he delivered another blow, his grip on Kal’s arm tightened, twisting hard until finally, bone broke in the warsuit’s fist.

The cry that got him gave Bruce pause long enough to realize Clark had not tried to stop him. Yards away, he gingerly pushed himself up onto his knees to watch him. Gritting his teeth, Bruce dispatched Kal with one last strike, then leaned over him, giant fists closed around each wrist. Badly beaten, Kal lapsed into unconsciousness.

The suit served as a cage, pinning Kal to the floor. Locking the suit in place over him, Bruce climbed out and turned towards Clark.

Bruce hesitated, not yet willing to go to him. “Are the others here?”

“Soon,” Clark promised. Briefly bracing himself against the wall, he rose.

Bruce took a tentative step towards him, before Clark sprinted forwards. Jubilant, he drew Bruce into his arms and buried his face in his shoulder. “God, when they told me he was going to execute you--” He trailed off, smoothing his hands over the cloak that covered Bruce.

Bruce remained stiff in his arms. Clark’s overwhelming joy at finding him hurt in a way he found difficult to describe. It twisted at his gut; it did not seem _right_. Alone here, Bruce had let himself be used as leverage, a mere bargaining chip for Supermen. More than that, he had let Kal get under his skin. Let him get too close.

“Sorry.” Clark drew back, sensing his discomfort. “I wasn’t thinking, are you hurt?” He reached out, fingers hovering just above Bruce’s swollen eye. Bruce inhaled as his gaze swept downwards, blue eyes peering under his very clothes.

“Clark, I’m fine.” He tried to wave him off, but Clark would not be dissuaded.

Frowning, Clark paused in his inspection. He slid his hand under the edge of Bruce’s cloak, flattening it over the crest on Bruce’s chest. “Oh,” he paused, as if surprised. “You’re wearing it.”

“I needed clothes, alright?” Bruce grabbed at his wrist, futilely trying to move his hand.

“You don’t know what it is?”

“The suit?” Bruce glanced down at himself in confusion.

“It’s a life suit. Kryptonian medical technology.”

“Oh.” Bruce flexed his hand. In the rush of the battle, it had not occurred to him that his most severe injuries no longer nagged at him.

Clark dropped his hand. “You might as well keep it, I suppose. It won’t do any good here.” His eyes wandered over to the fallen form of Kal.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever understand how there’s a world where this could have happened.”

“I don’t think it’s worth thinking about.”

“Right,” Clark inhaled, though he still seemed distracted by the thought. “Ready to get out of here?” he extended his hand. Reluctantly, Bruce took it and Clark swept him up off the ground and into his arms.

 

* * *

 

On the other side of the portal, everything that had been wrong with Kal was right. Clark was every bit the man he remembered and still it was so hard to be near him.

Gotham remained the same as it ever was. That made it easy for Bruce to dive right back in and utterly lose himself in the pain of others. In days, the events of the other world seemed almost a dream, as brutal and violent as any of those gifted to him by his own universe.

But Clark did not seem so ready to forget, because soon enough Bruce found him in the Cave. The blue of his suit made it difficult for him to hide, even as he stood back in the shadows, near the crevice that led to an unfinished section of the cavern.

Though Bruce spotted him immediately, he ignored him as he climbed out of the Batmobile. He tried to pretend the tightness in his chest was due adrenaline alone, from the fight he had minutes ago that left blood and filth dripping from his gauntlets.

“Wait, Bruce--” Clark called, trailing after him.

“I’m working,” Bruce growled, without turning to acknowledge him.

“Sorry,” Clark paused a few feet behind him as Bruce stood in front of the armory. "I just needed--wanted--to talk to you."

Sensing that Clark would not let him avoid conversation, Bruce grudging asked, "What is it?" He peeled the gauntlets away from his arms, leaving them on the nearest workbench.

“Do we have to do this with the mask?” Clark frowned.

At Bruce’s flat glare, Clark raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, sorry. I’ll just get to the point.” Then he swallowed, as if nerving himself up for the rest, and shifted to one side.

"When I was in the other universe, when I fought the other Superman, he tried to get in my head. He said things about you, that you were attracted to him. That he knew you better than I ever had."

Bruce shut his eyes briefly. He had hoped Clark would never ask, never comprehend the innuendo.

“Bruce,” Clark turned towards him. “What did he mean when he said that?”

Bruce exhaled, undoing the latches that held his cowl in place. The yellowing bruise near his eye now showed, the only mark left by Kal that still remained.

A lie would be useless now, pointless. Clark wouldn’t ask a question like this if he hadn’t already guessed some part of it.

“We had sex."

He waited for the shock and horror, but got neither, only genuine confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t think I need to explain it to you.”

“No, Bruce," sighing, Clark bowed his head. "You know what I mean. I mean was it—was it consensual?”

Bruce weighed the question for a moment. He could give the truth, which would earn him an eternity of pitying glances and self-guilt from Clark. Or he could easily lie and suffer breaking the confidence between them. “Clark.”

“Bruce,” Clark spoke his name, glancing back up at him. “I’m sorry, I guess it’s none of my business. I just, he really got under my skin.”

“It wasn’t.”

Clark’s eyes flickered back to the space where the portal had appeared, though there was not any trace of it left. His fists clenched, pulse jumping on his temple, an anger Bruce had grown all too familiar with in the past few days. Bruce couldn’t help but let his fingers slip towards the handle of the lead-lined cabinet in front of him, where Clark could not see them.

“Clark,” Bruce kept his voice steady, calm. “I’m not an innocent, or someone whose honor needs protecting.”

Seeming ashamed of himself, Clark glanced at his feet. “Of course not. I just—is there anything I can do? Is there anything you want me to do? Or do you want me to leave?” Then he slumped, one hand sweeping through his curls. “God, I can’t imagine what it’s like being in the same room as me.”

Deliberately slow, Bruce approached him. Clark stared at him, expression hovering somewhere between devastation and uncertainty. “Clark,” he said his name again, taking his hands in his own. Clark tensed, ready to recoil. He was unused to this level of contact with Bruce.

“It may take time for our friendship to be the same, but I will try. I don’t want to end a friendship over something you had no control over.” He squeezed slightly at Clark’s broad hands. “I trust you. I know the kind of man you are.”

“Why would you? How do you know that I’m not months or days from being the same as him? I could—”

“Don’t,” Bruce snapped. “Don’t you dare. The only thing I had while I was with him was the knowledge that you were different.”

Clark exhaled, a soft sound close to a sob. He lowered himself to his knees, Bruce’s hands still clasped around his. “I’m sorry,” he looked up at Bruce imploringly. “You shouldn’t be the one reassuring me. Tell me what you need from me.”

“I’d like everything to stay the same with you, the League, everyone else. I don’t want anyone else to know.”

“Of course not,” Clark acquiesced easily.

Slowly, Bruce wrapped his arms around Clark, drawing him in to rest his head against the cool armor that covered his stomach. Clark looped an arm around his waist, cheek pressed flat against him and closed his eyes.


End file.
